Eerie fic: Ghost in the Machine
Aug. 26th, 2015 06:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
froodle posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
eerieindiana"Why can't you be normal?!"
Dash starts a little at the scream of frustration that emanates from Simon's half-open bedroom door. Marshall doesn't even look up from his magazine. (It's the latest issue of Fortean Times, and promises a "definitive investigation into the Bigfoot phenomenon." So far, Mars isn't impressed; the author's research methodology is flawed and they've taken refuge in academic jargon to try to hide it.)
Simon stamps into the living room, face flushed and gritting his teeth so hard that Dash swears he can hear dentin cracking under the strain. He opens the cupboard under the sink with such force that the door rebounds off the adjecent cabinet, and a portion of the wood-patterned veneer cracks and flakes away, revealing the grainy MDF beneath.
Marshall turns a page, scowling and muttering darkly as he shifts in his seat. Dash's gaze flits uneasily from one to the other, as Simon rummages amongst the untidily folded stacks of tea towels, the bottles of washing up liquid, and boxes of detergent under the sink, finally reaching to the very back and emerging with a mid-sized claw hammer.
He glances up and his eyes, narrowed in temper, meet Dash's. He grimaces, visibly forcing his face into an expression of calm, and flicks his head in the general direction of his bedroom, raising his thin shoulders in a "what are you gonna do?" shrug. Not knowing what else to do, Dash simply nods in acknowledgement as Simon leaves the room.
A moment later, there comes the sound of repeated heavy blows against a solid object, followed by splintering plastic and the shriek and whine of metal being forcibly bent out of shape.
Dash makes a small, alomst imperceptable movement towards the edge of the seatee, but Marshall grabs his forearm and pulls him back against the cushions. Eyes still on his magazine, he shakes his head slightly and mouths a silent "no".
The noise of destruction continues for several more minutes before Simon exits his bedroom, already pulling on his coat.
"'M going out," he murmurs, almost too soft to catch, all the while staring at his feet. He is twenty years old, and though he eventually mastered the art of getting truly angry, he has not yet learned to stop apologising for it.
"See you later," says Marshall, finally looking up. "Call if you want a ride."
Simon nods and slinks out into the cool spring evening.
When the door closes behind him, Marshall waits for a few seconds before fetching a dustpan, broom and black plastic bin liner. He fills a large tumbler with water, passes it to Dash, and gestures for him to follow.
In Simon's room, pieces of a nearly-new laptop are strewn across the floor; and there are dents and gouges in the surface of the cheap, hastily-assembled desk in one corner. Much of the damage is new; much of it is not. Dash, who is partly responsible for the botched assembly job, knows that none of them were there when they first brought it home.
They pick the biggest chunks of ex-laptop by hand, and Dash holds the dustpan while Mars carefully sweeps up the smaller pieces. When they're done, Mars carries the bag outside and pours the water over the fragments inside, and the circuit boards spark and smoke and scream Simon's name in a thin metallic voice.
Later, Mars will tell him the story of Mister Wilson, the Friendly Automated Teller Machine, and a nine year old boy who was so achingly, desperately lonely that he would spend cold fall evenings singing nursery rhymes to a cash machine. He flinches when he gets to the part about Nick and Eddie, and Dash X, who just a few years ago would have literally killed to be able to remember his past, reflects that perhaps there are some memories it is better to forget.
Dash starts a little at the scream of frustration that emanates from Simon's half-open bedroom door. Marshall doesn't even look up from his magazine. (It's the latest issue of Fortean Times, and promises a "definitive investigation into the Bigfoot phenomenon." So far, Mars isn't impressed; the author's research methodology is flawed and they've taken refuge in academic jargon to try to hide it.)
Simon stamps into the living room, face flushed and gritting his teeth so hard that Dash swears he can hear dentin cracking under the strain. He opens the cupboard under the sink with such force that the door rebounds off the adjecent cabinet, and a portion of the wood-patterned veneer cracks and flakes away, revealing the grainy MDF beneath.
Marshall turns a page, scowling and muttering darkly as he shifts in his seat. Dash's gaze flits uneasily from one to the other, as Simon rummages amongst the untidily folded stacks of tea towels, the bottles of washing up liquid, and boxes of detergent under the sink, finally reaching to the very back and emerging with a mid-sized claw hammer.
He glances up and his eyes, narrowed in temper, meet Dash's. He grimaces, visibly forcing his face into an expression of calm, and flicks his head in the general direction of his bedroom, raising his thin shoulders in a "what are you gonna do?" shrug. Not knowing what else to do, Dash simply nods in acknowledgement as Simon leaves the room.
A moment later, there comes the sound of repeated heavy blows against a solid object, followed by splintering plastic and the shriek and whine of metal being forcibly bent out of shape.
Dash makes a small, alomst imperceptable movement towards the edge of the seatee, but Marshall grabs his forearm and pulls him back against the cushions. Eyes still on his magazine, he shakes his head slightly and mouths a silent "no".
The noise of destruction continues for several more minutes before Simon exits his bedroom, already pulling on his coat.
"'M going out," he murmurs, almost too soft to catch, all the while staring at his feet. He is twenty years old, and though he eventually mastered the art of getting truly angry, he has not yet learned to stop apologising for it.
"See you later," says Marshall, finally looking up. "Call if you want a ride."
Simon nods and slinks out into the cool spring evening.
When the door closes behind him, Marshall waits for a few seconds before fetching a dustpan, broom and black plastic bin liner. He fills a large tumbler with water, passes it to Dash, and gestures for him to follow.
In Simon's room, pieces of a nearly-new laptop are strewn across the floor; and there are dents and gouges in the surface of the cheap, hastily-assembled desk in one corner. Much of the damage is new; much of it is not. Dash, who is partly responsible for the botched assembly job, knows that none of them were there when they first brought it home.
They pick the biggest chunks of ex-laptop by hand, and Dash holds the dustpan while Mars carefully sweeps up the smaller pieces. When they're done, Mars carries the bag outside and pours the water over the fragments inside, and the circuit boards spark and smoke and scream Simon's name in a thin metallic voice.
Later, Mars will tell him the story of Mister Wilson, the Friendly Automated Teller Machine, and a nine year old boy who was so achingly, desperately lonely that he would spend cold fall evenings singing nursery rhymes to a cash machine. He flinches when he gets to the part about Nick and Eddie, and Dash X, who just a few years ago would have literally killed to be able to remember his past, reflects that perhaps there are some memories it is better to forget.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2016-12-13 02:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-13 05:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-13 11:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-13 11:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-13 11:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-14 08:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-14 05:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-14 08:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-14 11:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-14 11:31 pm (UTC)